


A Kiss on the Forehead

by spacestationtrustfund



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Caning, Consensual Non-Consent, D/s, Dom Natasha, Edgeplay, F/M, Femdom, HTP adjacent, Hurt/Comfort, Identity, Identity Porn, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Past Rape/Non-con, Platonic BDSM, Power Play, Rape Roleplay, Recovery, Stone partner, Trauma, Verbal Humiliation, but not in that order, honestly can't believe that's a tag I love it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:41:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23657776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacestationtrustfund/pseuds/spacestationtrustfund
Summary: "It's just an action," Natasha said. "It's fine."Basically I saw that there weren't enough fics where Natasha platonically tops the shit out of Bucky, so I decided to help fill the niche.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanoff
Comments: 46
Kudos: 326
Collections: spacestationtrustfund sampler





	A Kiss on the Forehead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mia (outofthedeadland)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/outofthedeadland/gifts).



> If the tags weren't enough to give you an idea of what this fic is about, I don't know what else to say. See end notes for more detailed content warnings.
> 
> Title from the Marina Tsvetaeva poem "[В лоб целовать](https://ruverses.com/marina-tsvetaeva/to-kiss-the-brow-eases-all-anxiety/)." I'm not fond of that translation, so for those who don't speak Russian, the poem goes something like: _A kiss on the forehead—erases anxiety./I kiss your forehead./A kiss on the eyelids—removes insomnia./I kiss your eyelids./A kiss on the lips—quenches thirst./I kiss your lips./A kiss on the forehead—erases memory./I kiss your forehead_.

"So, tell me," Natasha asked, around a bite of pelmeni off the plate sat between them on the floor of the gym. "Are you and Steve fucking yet?"

Bucky made a face at her. "Don't talk with your mouth full."

She swallowed, then stuck out her tongue at him in response. "So? Are you?"

"In the realm of acceptable questions to ask, that's not even remotely there, Natalia. Mind your own business."

"I'm Russian," she said. "Rudeness is culturally relative."

"Bull _shit_." Bucky pointed at her with one of the pelmeni they were sharing, snatching it back when she tried to bite it out of his hand. "Russian culture is minding your own business."

Natasha gave him one of her deliberately enigmatic smiles. "So I'm curious. Is that a crime now?"

"No," said Bucky. He grabbed the last of the pelmeni from the plate before she could steal it from right underneath his nose.

"No it's not a crime, or no you're not fucking?"

"Why aren't you bothering Steve about this?"

"He's not as fun to mess with," Natasha said. "You can really only shock him with something once. The first time he heard me say _fuck_ , he nearly dropped his shield on his own foot."

Bucky took a moment to picture that delightful scene. "No, we're not fucking," he relented. Not for lack of effort on Steve's part, even if he'd been a bit gun-shy at first. "It's not his fault."

"Huh," she said. "It's interesting that you'd assume it'd be _anyone's_ fault, but hey, I'm no expert. It took me years before I really accepted that I wasn't going to be forced to have sex with my superiors at SHIELD."

"I heard," Bucky said, dry as dust, "SHIELD doesn't do that sort of thing."

Natasha sighed. "American intelligence agencies are so passive, really. No wonder the Russian ones always came out on top." She leered. "And the Russians."

"I'm not even Russian."

"You're an honorary Russian," she said. "Like you said about me."

"What, that you're an honorary Jew? That's different," he said, uncomfortable. "If you didn't convert, and you didn't know your mother was..."

Natasha laughed quietly. "I know," she said. "I know. I'm not really Jewish, or really anything else either." She gave him a sly smile. "You have to admit though, I was good at making latkes with you last year."

"You can't cook," Bucky said. "But they weren't bad."

"I cooked the pelmeni!"

"And?"

She made a face. "Mean."

"As the day is long," Bucky said. She grinned back at him again.

"So what exactly is the problem?"

It was never going to be easy, talking about it. Bucky exhaled heavily. "It just—doesn't work," he said, gesturing awkwardly. "We've tried. I mean, I love Steve, you know as well as I do, but when it comes to—well. It's not gonna happen."

"Hm," Natasha said. She took another bite of pelmeni. "Is it that you can't get it up, or you don't want to?"

"Oy vavoy, Natalia, what do you want me to say? It's not that I wouldn't be happy the way things are, it's just that—"

"It's not what you need."

"I don't want to scare him," Bucky said. "And I don't want him to feel like it's his fault."

Natasha lifted her eyebrows.

"It's not Steve's fault," said Bucky, emphatic as he could manage.

He still didn't feel entirely comfortable discussing it with her, but it was better than with Steve, what with that stupidly earnest face Steve always got whenever they were talking about anything involving Bucky's past with HYDRA. Bucky had only really tried to bring it up once, and Steve's reaction had been exactly what he'd expected: Steve didn't want to hurt him. Never mind that Bucky had _asked_ to be hurt.

Natasha folded her hands together. "Listen," she said. "If you really don't want to talk about it, or if it's not a problem, that's fine, just tell me to fuck off and I will."

"You don't have to fuck off," he said, shaking his head. "But I don't want you to feel obligated to do anything about it, or—or to do something you don't want to, because you think this is what friends do. Because it's not."

"Maybe not normally. But we're not normal people. It's just an action," Natasha said. "It's fine. I don't mind. If you needed me to cut your hair or wash your feet, I'd do it. I helped Clint take a shower for a month after that mission in Malaŵi. I've quite literally spoon-fed agents when they needed the help. And it's not like we've never fucked before."

"Not like this."

"No, not like this," she agreed. "But do you seriously think this is something I've never done before? You know more about my history than anyone else does. Even Clint."

Bucky glanced down at the plate. "Steve doesn't know about everything that went on with HYDRA," he said, "and I ain't gonna tell him unless I have to. He doesn't need to know. And it's not like they had a library check-out system: _this is Brock Rumlow, reserving the Winter Soldier for two hours of rape and torture, will return ASAP_ , that sort of thing. They were fuckin' Nazis, Natalia, they weren't that organized or that smart. Steve's not gonna find out unless I tell him, and I won't tell him."

"I won't tell him anything you don't want him to know," said Natasha levelly. "If there's anyone who understands how lying can be better than being honest, it's me. However," she pointed a finger at him, "I also won't be an accessory to helping you cheat on him."

"It ain't like that," Bucky said, embarrassed. Out of all the things to be the most squirmy about, of course it had to be the part about outlining his actual relationship. "It's not—you know. It never was. We're not star-crossed lovers or whatever. He's fine with it. I mean," he winced, "he wanted me to go to a, what'd he call it, a sex therapist."

Natasha burst out laughing. "How does he even know about those? Bozhe moy."

"Y'see, he was worried I had a _condition_ ," Bucky said, warming to the topic. If there was one thing he never tired of, it was dunking on Steve. "Wanted me to know about all these fancy new-fangled inventions of the modern era, sex toys and Viagra and—"

"And here he had me believing he was a vestal virgin," said Natasha. "That poker face is better than I thought."

"Steve can't lie to save his own ass in a crisis," said Bucky, dismissive. "There was always only one thing he could lie about, and that was bein' a fruit. But it's not a problem," he hastened to add, in case she got the wrong idea. "It's not. It's like—well, how you and Barton are."

Natasha looked thoughtful. "Yes," she said. "I could see that, yes."

Bucky nodded.

"I don't mind if he goes with other women," she said, slowly.

"Right," he said. "It's like that. Steve wouldn't want to go with anyone else anyway, and that don't mean I wouldn't get jealous if he did, but he won't, so it doesn't really matter anyhow."

Natasha sucked on her teeth thoughtfully. "You're not even into women," she said, "are you?"

"I like 'em fine," Bucky protested. He made a face as if to say what can you do about it. "Don't really want to do anything with 'em, though. And the one person I'd even want to do anything with, I can't. No offense," he added.

"Psh." Natasha waved a hand. "I know. It's not about sex."

"Yeah," he said, relieved that she understood.

It had never been about sex. Sometimes it hadn't even involved sex: there were an infinity of other ways to hurt someone. It had always been about power, and about control.

She said, "That does lead to a question, though. What's the end goal? With sex, it's usually an orgasm. But it's not just that, is it?"

Bucky shook his head. "No, uh," he said. "They didn't particularly care if I came, it wasn't about that, that was just a side effect. Some of 'em liked to brag about it, but it's not like I was getting sucked off 24-7, y'know? I was either a gun or a toy. Two purposes."

"So it's until you tap out."

"I won't tap out," Bucky said. It wasn't a threat or even a warning, really. Just a fact. "I mean, he won't tap out. He can't. That's not an option. That wasn't in the programming."

"But you're not him," she said.

He shook his head again. That wasn't the point. He still had the programming in his body, no matter what his brain had decided to be. "Steve wants _Bucky_ , not the Soldier," he said. "I can be Bucky, most of the time, but—"

"Not this?"

"Not this," Bucky said, relieved. "The wires're crossed, or however you'd say it. _Bucky_ never did _this_. But this is the only way it can happen. So Bucky can't do anything without the programming coming back out."

If Natasha was disturbed by the way he talked about it, the way Steve had been, she didn't show it. "It's not just about the pain, is it?" she said. "You're perfectly fine on missions, or when we're sparring."

"No, it's not— Steve wouldn't have minded roughing me up a bit," Bucky said, ducking his head. "We always did that, kind of. But it's— you have to talk. I have to _feel_ like I'm still the Soldier."

Natasha picked up the empty plate and stood, stretching languidly. "Well," she said. "We've still got about an hour before anyone else is scheduled to be in the gym. Do you want to go ahead and do it now?"

"Uh," Bucky said, eloquently. "I—I wasn't—"

"We'll have to have some ground rules," Natasha said. She had her mission face on, which wasn't comforting from a logical standpoint—too familiar to the way Steve's face got when he'd been in this same situation—but Bucky could already feel himself responding to it, wanting to slip back into the Soldier's placid role, waiting for the orders to come. "Before we start. I am going to hurt you, and I am going to insult you, and I am going to make you cry. This will end only when you tap out. If this is not what you want, say something."

He could have said something then, and they would have laughed it off. Instead, he looked her right in the eyes, then very deliberately dropped his gaze to the floor.

"All right," Natasha said. "I know there are some triggers where you can't say no, so we'll eliminate that entirely. For _no_ or _stop_ , you say 'red.' For _slow down_ or _pause_ , you say 'yellow.' For _keep going_ or _good_ , you say 'green.' Talking won't be necessary unless I tell you to, but you can tap out at any time non-verbally. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Bucky said, then amended, "green."

Natasha smiled. "Good boy," she said. Then, when he started to get up, "No, no, stay there."

Bucky sank back down into a seated position immediately.

The floor of the gym was padded, so his knees wouldn't start to hurt unless she made him kneel for hours, and they didn't have that sort of time.

Not today.

But Natasha was creative; he had faith in her abilities. That was half of the reason he'd wanted to do this in the first place, the feeling of being loose as putty in someone's competent hands, not having to worry about what to do or to say. He would do and say what she told him to. Nothing more and nothing less.

"All right," Natasha said. "Now, I have some rules of my own to follow, because I'm just borrowing you to play with for a while. I'm not allowed to leave marks on visible body parts—especially the face. My superiors," and Bucky had to stifle a smile at the phrasing, "wouldn't be pleased if I damaged their favorite toy." She set the plate down on a stack of practice mats, and picked up one of the long wooden rods they used for bo staff training. "You know your limits of functionality. If I cross a line, you will tell me immediately. Do you understand me? Nod or shake your head."

He nodded.

"Good," she said. "You've already been fed, so we won't have to worry about you collapsing from hunger before I'm finished with you. I read those files, you used to fall apart halfway through conditioning sessions if you hadn't been pampered beforehand. You're supposed to be better than that, but I suppose it would be too much to ask. But since you've already been coddled, come on over here. No," she added, when he started to stand again. "I didn't say you could get up."

Fuck you, Bucky thought, but he shuffled forwards on his knees obediently.

Natasha smiled. It was the Black Widow smile, he noticed, with a thrill. She switched the practice staff from one hand to the other, testing the heft of it.

"It's a shame I'm not wearing boots, or I could make you lick them clean," she said. "The famed _Winter_ _Soldier_ , reduced to a boot-rag. Wouldn't that be something." She stuck out one bare foot. "Go on, kiss it. Keep your hands behind your back."

Bucky was tempted to roll his eyes up at her, but instead he leaned forwards and kissed the top of her foot.

Natasha switched hands again and brought the rod down on his ass, hard, and he lost his balance. His face smashed into the floor of the gym—she'd removed her foot swiftly, and she now settled her heel on the back of his head, keeping him in place. "Pathetic," she said, trailing the blunt end of the staff along his spine, from the base of his neck to his tailbone. "Get up."

When he tried, she hit him again, harder this time. Bucky tried to catch himself without using his hands, and wasn't expecting the next blow to land on his outer thigh; he made a thin, high noise before he could stop himself.

"Shut up," Natasha snapped. She brought the end of the rod to his jaw, using it to lift his chin. "You stay quiet unless I tell you to make a sound. What kind of a sniper would you be, if you whimpered and cried like a child every time something hurt you? And look at you," she said, disgust thick in her voice. "The greatest weapon in the world. And you've been reduced to this." She stroked the point of the staff over his back, then used it to shove him hard in the ribs; he almost fell onto his side, but managed to stay kneeling. "Turn around and close your eyes."

He did.

Without being able to see her, she could have been anywhere in the room. He could usually hear where someone was, but Natasha's footsteps were silent on the padded floor. Bucky kept his eyes closed and focused on breathing, the way Steve had shown him: in, and out, and in again.

It was a relief, to be back in this position. All he had to do was to do what he was told to do, and then he would be good, he'd be so good.

Natasha's slim hand slid around the back of his neck without warning, curling over his jugular. "It's a good thing you follow orders so well," she said, in his ear. He could feel the curve of her smile against his cheek; she bit down on his earlobe, almost hard enough to break the skin—but not quite.

There was a metallic _shik_ sound, then the cool blade of a knife pressed against his throat from the other side. His heart skipped a beat.

The knife trailed down his chest, pressing just hard enough to dig into the skin.

Natasha yanked the ruined shirt away, then stopped with the knife resting just below his navel.

"Look at you," she said, sounding disgusted. "All it takes to get you hard is a couple of good hits. What would Captain America say if he saw you here like this, so eager for it when I've barely even touched you? And you can't even get it up when you're with him. No wonder he hates touching you."

It wasn't _true_ , Bucky thought, squeezing his eyes shut even tighter. Steve had _said_.

Natasha's knife dug into the waist of his sweatpants. "Off," she said, and laughed, loud and mean, when he struggled to get out of them without falling onto his face again.

When he was naked, still kneeling, Natasha stood and kneed him in the small of his back, hard enough to bruise, shoving him face-first to the ground, then planted her heel on the space between his shoulder blades so he couldn't get up again. Bucky kept his eyes shut, face turned to the side so it wouldn't get mashed into the floor, and breathed.

The pressure of the rubber mats on the floor against his cock wasn't yet uncomfortable enough to distract him. The weight of her foot forcing him into the ground wasn't yet uncomfortable enough to distract him. He could be good. He was going to be good. In, and out, and in again.

After a long moment, Natasha stepped back. "Get up," she said. "Open your eyes."

He obeyed. She was holding the wooden staff in one hand, and her other hand held not the knife but one of the stretchy rubber bands used for exercises.

"Stay kneeling," she said. "Hands behind your back. Head down."

Once he was in the position she wanted, Natasha unfurled the rubber band and stretched it out, testing. She walked around him in a tight circle, contemplative. He kept his eyes open, looking down, hands behind his back, and breathed.

In, and out, and in again.

Natasha took the rubber band and smacked him across the chest with it. The snap of rubber was loud in the empty room.

"Look at you," Natasha said, sneering. "All it takes is someone to slap you around a bit, and you're already aching to get fucked. No wonder you were their favorite toy. At least _I_ would fight back. You probably just begged them for it. With us, they kept us on a tight leash. We had to report back constantly. But you were sent out with barely a support team, and you _still_ didn't do _shit_. You just came when called, like a fucking _dog_. No wonder they didn't treat you like a human—you didn't deserve to be treated like you could think. What use is a gun that has opinions? No wonder the Red Room couldn't wait to be rid of you. We didn't even sell you to the Americans, we gave you away. You were useless. _Weak_. Couldn't even do your job properly. You think you'll be getting anything out of this? You think I'll let you get off on it? You don't deserve that. You have to _earn it_."

She swung the rubber band around and stuck his back, harder than before. "Useless fucking worthless piece of damaged goods," she spat, punctuating each word with another hit. "Like kicking a car until it starts. You couldn't even finish the most _basic_ of missions. I had to kill someone for the first time when I was only _five_. You had all the training possible and you _still—couldn't—do—it_."

That wasn't true, he thought furiously, but of course he couldn't say anything. Natasha doubled down with the rubber band, striping it across his back until it felt like the skin there was on fire, so hot he wondered that it didn't singe her. He was still hard, but that was a distant ache, trivial in comparison to the burning throb where she'd hit him.

Natasha dropped the rubber band. She prodded at his cock with the practice staff, screwing up her face in revulsion.

"Pathetic needy little thing," she said. "If I actually touched you, I bet you'd go off like a rocket, but you can't get it up when you're with someone who actually gives a fuck about you? You can play house with Captain America all you want, but you were made for _this_."

In, and out, and in again.

She laid one smooth hand on the burning flesh of his back, and it took everything he had not to flinch. Natasha's touch was cool and gentle; she stroked her fingers lightly along the raised welts she'd left.

"Shame I don't have any good toys with me," she said. She curled her hand, and her sharp fingernails dug into the mess of pain on his back; he almost screamed when she pushed harder, hard enough that he could feel the moment when she broke the already damaged skin, the blood welling up. "I'd fuck you while you're already begging for it like a miserable little whore. Two functions, right? Gun and _hole_."

In, and out, and in again.

The blunt end of the staff slid down his back and his ass, and his breath hitched. Natasha kicked the inside of his legs lightly until he shuffled them wider apart.

"Or maybe I'd get Captain America and make him watch," she added. The end of the staff brushed against his asshole, and he almost squeezed his eyes shut even though she hadn't said he could. "Watch you crying and begging for more, while I fucked you better than he ever could. Maybe I'll send you back to him with something still inside you, keeping you open and ready to use." The staff travelled down to rest underneath his balls, and Natasha jabbed him in the stomach with her foot. "Or I could get my knife and cut it all off, how about that? It's not like you're using them anyway."

In. And out. And in again.

Natasha smiled nastily. "I'll cut it off and send Captain America a little present," she said, nodding her head. "And while I've got the knife, I'll make you carve my name in your leg—somewhere he'll see. Maybe right on your face. So everyone will know who you belong to."

In. And out.

And in again.

"Pick up the rubber and give it to me," Natasha said.

He did.

The staff thumped to the floor, and Natasha wrapped the rubber band around her hand, leaving about half of it dangling free. "Spread your legs," she said. Then, when he did, "Yeah, that's it, you slut. You know what to do, don't you?"

In.

Natasha brought down the rubber band on the tender skin right next to his balls, and the stinging jolt of pain that burst through his entire body was enough to make him have to bite down hard so he wouldn't scream.

And out.

Then another lash to the other side, this time landing close enough that his cock twitched, eager.

And in again.

Natasha placed her foot in the middle of his chest and _shoved_. He fell, and landed hard on his back: the resulting explosion of white-hot pain that burst across his eyes nearly made him vomit. Natasha kicked him firmly on the inner thigh where she'd struck him with the rubber band, and his stomach contracted; he rolled onto his side, curling up, breathing heavily through his nose and clenching every muscle so he wouldn't scream.

"You're out of practice," she said, chiding. "We'll need to do this again, until you remember your place."

Another kick, this time on his lower back, and his whole body jerked, convulsing.

The pain in of itself wasn't unmanageable. He'd handled far worse before, after all. But the fact that she knew he wasn't even doing it properly—wasn't even being _good_...

He realized, with a sickening swoop in his stomach, that there were tears burning into his eyes.

"I can't fucking believe you're getting off on this shit," she said, digging her toes sharply into the raw bruises on his back. "Can't even use you like you're supposed to be used without you wanting to turn it into something about yourself." She crouched next to him, grabbing his jaw in one hand and yanking his chin up so he was looking into her eyes. They were dark grey and disgusted. "That's why the Russians tossed you, and why HYDRA left you behind as soon as they had an excuse—you're selfish. Here I am, and you still think this is about _you_. Well," she dropped his chin and stood again, wiping off her hand on her leggings like she'd touched something rotten. "Go on, get it over with."

He paused, uncertain.

"You stupid, worthless thing," she snapped, kicking him in the stomach, not quite hard enough to wind him. "Get up. And get yourself off, so we can get back to what we're supposed to be doing before you ruined everything."

Slowly, every inch of his body aching, he brought his right hand to his cock and cupped it loosely, waiting for her order.

She waved a hand, dismissive. "Get on with it, you useless whore."

The knife, he noticed, was tucked into the waistband of her leggings. He curled his hand around his cock and began stroking despite the dryness of his palm, careful not to move his bruised shoulder too much.

"It's a shame I can't bring the others in here," she said, as though she'd just thought of it. "Forget about Captain America—he'd be watching you off to the side, nothing more. He can't get you off anyway. Wait until the gym is open for the day, and everyone else who comes in here can have a chance to fuck you, use you like you want to be used. All of them, lined up one after the other, maybe a couple of them at once. That's how they used to do it, the Americans, wasn't it? Like a party. And you," and she kicked him savagely in the ribcage again, "you're the fucking piñata."

He had to bite down on his tongue to stifle a whimper. His hand on his cock was more pain than pleasure or anything else, even as the head was still leaking. He could feel his pulse underneath his palm.

She jabbed the point of her foot into the wide bruise on his ribs, and he nearly bit through his tongue. Blood flooded his mouth, hot and metallic.

"I wish you still had a mask," she said. "It'd be better if I didn't have to look at you."

The mask would have been a comfort, but it was a luxury he knew he hadn't earned. He kept his hand moving like she'd ordered, even when it crossed the line into complete pain, hoping she wouldn't have noticed.

She noticed; she kicked him viciously in the thigh and snapped, "Stop touching yourself."

He yanked his hand away like he'd been touching hot coals. His cock bobbed anyway, a few drops of pre-come spurting out.

"You can come whenever you can't handle this," she said, like she didn't care. She walked around behind him, and he heard the scrape and rustle of her picking up the wooden rod again; his cock jolted again at the thought. "Might as well get it over with."

Although he was expecting the first agonizing smack of the rod on his back, he still wasn't braced for the pain. He swayed forwards, mouth opening in a soundless gasp, cock dribbling onto the floor. White-hot bright lightning burst behind his eyes, splintering and caustic.

She rested the end of the rod on the back of his neck, pressing against the knob at the top of his spine. "Stop wasting my time."

The next hit was on his ass instead of his back; it hurt less, but it was more of a surprise, a duller ache. He could feel when his balls tightened, his cock heavy and full between his legs, muscles clenching in anticipation—he was so close, he was going to come, if only she'd hit him again, just one more time—

A pause.

The staff was returned to its position on the back of his neck. The silence stretched out, empty and charged. He couldn't see her. He couldn't hear her. The solid weight of the staff didn't waver.

And then it vanished.

He rocked back, suddenly frantic, seeking the grounding sensation of the staff pinning him in place, but there was nothing there.

Then—the whistling hum of the shaft moving through the air, and he convulsed, bending over at the waist, still kneeling—his cock jerked, and he started to come before the blow even landed.

The strikes stopped, the end of the rod tapping dully against the floor, impatient. He hunched over, cramped, breathing sharply through his nose, while his cock throbbed and pulsed, come spraying out onto the floor in long stripes in front of him.

The sensation of relief bordered on discomfort. His whole body felt like one spreading bruise, purple and yellow around the edges.

When he was finished coming, cock softening and messy, she walked around to stand in front of him again. "You're like an animal," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Clean that up."

That was as clear an order as he'd ever been given. He shuffled forwards awkwardly and bent down to lick at the ground.

It tasted like plastic and like sweat and only a little bit like jizz. Mostly it was like licking someone's unwashed feet, which would hardly have been the worst thing he'd ever had to do before. There were small, fine pieces of loose dirt that caught on his tongue, but he was able to spit those out surreptitiously. He kept lapping at the floor until the only thing left on the practice mats was a shiny smear of his own saliva, then looked up at her.

"At least you know your place," she said, and turned away.

She hadn't said what to do, so he knelt there, waiting, until she returned to her position in front of him, empty-handed.

"That's what it is, isn't it," she said, looking down at him like he was a particularly abnormal insect. "You're so helpless and worthless and _greedy_ you couldn't even take care of things on your own, you had to come find someone to help you tie your shoe laces and hold your hand crossing the street, because you're _nothing_ —and after all that posturing, you still came crawling back to kiss our feet, because you knew the _good guys_ couldn't give you what you need, what you deserve—you needed someone to fill you up, to make it hurt, to fuck you _properly_ , and you couldn't get that anywhere else, that's it? You fucking _slut_. Flapping your mouth about how you escaped, but as soon as you get a little stiffy, you come running back to beg for more. You had _Captain America_ willing to stick it to you and that still wasn't enough for you, was it? You needed someone who could take care of you properly, not like _Steve_ —"

" _Red_ ," Bucky choked, curled around himself on the floor, and Natasha stopped.

"All right," she said, and her voice was softer than he'd ever heard. "All right. I'm going to get a cloth to clean you up, all right? I'll be right back."

He didn't say anything. He kept his eyes on her, watching, as she walked over to the utility sink and dunked one of the towels hanging there, then returned, dripping water across the floor.

"It'll sting a bit," she said, then knelt and daubed the towel along his back; he hissed at the shock of the cool cloth against the angry red welts, and she made a sympathetic noise. "I know, I know," she soothed. "I know... here, drink this."

She was holding a water bottle to his lips, one of her weird electrolyte-infused concoctions with a pink label.

The water was cold, like ice; he hadn't realized until then how dry his throat was.

Natasha held the cold bottle up against the bruise on his shoulder. "You did great," she said gently. "The goal was to get you to tap out, and you did, and it stopped. It's over, okay? We're done. Here, put some clothes on."

It was a change of clothes from her bag: a pair of Clint's sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt. Bucky felt a rush of gratitude so overwhelming he almost broke down crying again.

"We don't have to talk about it right now," Natasha said. She had already put away the practice staff and the rubber band at some point; even the knife was nowhere to be seen. "I figured mentioning Steve like that would be enough to make you call it, and you did. You did exactly what I told you to do."

It was the best possible thing she could have said right then, Bucky thought.

He wasn't sure if he could talk yet. Maybe if she asked a direct question.

"There's still around fifteen minutes left," she said, "in case you were wondering. I'm going to clean everything up, and then we can go get those super-sweet little fruity drinks, and then go home and you can take a nap, okay? Nod or shake your head."

That much he could do. Bucky nodded, and accepted her arm to help him stand. His legs were still a little shaky, but he could already feel the skin on his back starting to itch the way it always did when it was healing. It was a weird shivery feeling like insects crawling across his skin, like after a sunburn when the top layer would peel off and reveal the soft, new skin underneath.

**Author's Note:**

> If you weren't turned off by the tags, you should be fine. To be clear, this is a fic in which Bucky deliberately regresses to the headspace of the Winter Soldier, and Natasha abuses him until he taps out. No actual present-day HTP stuff happens beyond the negotiated roleplay, but it's discussed in pretty blunt detail. Bucky consents in advance but can't say no while in the Soldier's headspace. Natasha hits Bucky with a stick, a piece of rubber, and her hands and feet; she forces him to masturbate (there is no genital torture, although it is mentioned); she does various degrading things such as making him kiss her foot or lick the floor; she verbally insults him, including calling him a slut and a whore, accusing him of wanting and enjoying his past rapes, and discussing various torture elements (tying him up to leave for Steve to find, cutting off his genitals, carving her name on him). Bucky does eventually tap out.
> 
> Also, I feel like it goes without saying, but: speaking as a professional, please don't do this at home? Unless you have the super-soldier serum, I guess. You guys are smart enough not to take this at face value, right? Right? Good.


End file.
